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Missing and Presumed (continued)
by Ganymede


See the man with the lonely eyes
Just take his hand
You'll be surprised
—"Give A Little Bit"
by Supertramp

Chapter Seven—His Hand

By the time Merlin found the spare sheets, cleared the boxes and other detritus off the spare bed and returned it to a sleepable condition, fifteen minutes had passed.

::It's not my damn fault—I never have guests. Even my foster parents prefer to stay at a hotel. Maybe they're trying to tell me something about my housekeeping habits...::

"Hey, Alex." Hollering from the top of the stairs.

Silence greeted him, cold and salty on a warm almost-summer night.

"Alex?"

The only sound was the ticking of the old-fashioned black cat clock with the moving eyes in the kitchen.

::Oh, fuck::

Merlin took the stairs down two at a time, awful scenarios dancing in his head like sugar-plum fairies. Scenarios of broken-in doors and retreating tail lights from a speeding car. Scenarios of silencers and bullet holes in living room furniture. Scenarios of blood and bone and brain sprayed against walls.

::Dammit, Alex, it's too late at night to be playing games::

::If you've disappeared, and I get in hot water with my boss because of it, I will so kick your ass::

At a dead run, Sig in his hand, heart pounding a staccato rhythm, he ran through the dark, silent kitchen and the equally empty dining room, hit the entranceway to the living room.... and froze in place. His body stopped moving before his brain could process the scene that presented itself in front of him.

Alex was lying on the couch in the darkened room, one arm over his eyes, booted feet propped up on the couch's upholstered arm, breathing deeply and evenly. Asleep.

Merlin slumped limply against the doorjamb, panting as if he had just run a marathon, sweat running down his back, waiting for his heart to stop trying to scale his ribs and climb into his throat. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, re-holstered his gun and chuckled to himself.

::I am way too old for this shit::

Merlin lurked in the darkened doorway for uncounted long moments, just watching the younger man sleep, feeling an unfamiliar tenderness seeping into his thoughts. Kindness and sympathy were weaknesses in the world he inhabited—the world of murders plotted by accountants and financial planners, the world of violence for the sake of the bottom line. This world had made him hard, disfigured him, an outer ugliness matched by the ugliness in his heart. He had been cold for a very long time.

Alex... was beautiful. Utterly, humanly beautiful. Cat's eyes like shards of green bottle-glass, raven hair like silk threads, voluptuous lips, high cheekbones—and a soul almost as tattered and damaged as Merlin's. In his sleep, Alex lost all pretensions of adulthood, and the purposeful grown-up gave way to the sad little boy underneath. Eyes closed, relaxed, he looked impossibly young. A beautiful, broken man-child—and Merlin felt his ventricles twist at the unaccustomed emotions.

Merlin turned to leave Alex to the company of his dreams, but only after one last, lingering glance, almost a caress, filled with longing and second-guesses.

On his way back to the stairway, Merlin stuck his head into the bathroom to turn out the light. His foster mother had impressed upon him the importance of not wasting electricity, and Merlin had been nothing if not a quick learner. Casually glancing around the room, he froze, hand on the light switch. A piece of paper and a small square of black leather were lying on the floor, next to the toilet. Alex's wallet. Alex's adoption certificate.

Merlin knelt down on the bathroom floor, holding the wallet in one hand, the square of folded paper in the other. Weighing. Judging. Deciding consequences. He let the running debate in his head chatter on for a moment, then told the angel sitting on his left shoulder to go fuck off. The devil on his other shoulder applauded loudly as he opened the wallet and carefully examined the contents.

Inside was exactly what Merlin expected to find. A driver's license and social security card in the name of Alexander Peter Krycek. Library card. Carry permit for the state of Illinois. Concealed weapons permit. Class 3 Firearms Dealer license. Short list of phone numbers and pager codes. Picture of a smiling Alex with two other young men in front of a backdrop of roller coasters and cotton candy stands, looking relaxed and happy. Seventy-eight dollars in cash and two lottery tickets. A folded up piece of paper. He put everything else back, and held the square of paper in his hand, contemplating.

Merlin noticed that his hands were trembling again. The angel started stabbing him behind his ear with something looking suspiciously like a pitchfork.

::What—is Alex's Jewish guilt contagious?::

Carefully, gingerly, he unfolded the piece of paper. A letter, handwritten in a man's strong hand.

###

Dear Alex,

As I am writing this, I am praying that, once it is done,I have the courage to walk across the room and hand it to you.

All these long months since you returned, I have been fighting to find the right time, the right words to express what I feel. Last night, I discovered that all I needed were two little words.

Thank you.

Thank you for bringing my beloved Tomas back to me.

"My" Tomas—just thinking those words in tandem sets off a small happy shiver. He is mine, my beautiful, impulsive, brilliant, half- crazy love.

You brought him back to me. You brought both of you back to me.

Thank you.

He makes me nuts, my Tomas. He lies—compulsively, reflexively, every day, every hour. He recreates himself on a daily basis, turning himself into someone new, complete with name and history. I never know who will be waiting for me when I get home from work. Will it be Tomas, the Greek exchange student? Will it be Tomas, the Bosnian vet? Will it be Tomas, Log Cabin Republican and stockbroker from Chicago?

And ,every once in a while, the man who greets me at the door is Tomas, abduction/rape survivor.

But through all his lies, he knows exactly what the truth is. He deceives everyone else, but not himself. And not you. He doesn't lie to you. And if I phrase the question correctly, use the proper tone of voice, he will answer a direct question honestly.

I can tell when he is lying. It's in the placement of his hands, in the tilt of his head, in the gentle inflection of his words. When he lies, it's so smooth. His body language is comfortable, relaxed. His hands are still, and he looks you in the eye. My boy radiates sincerity through every pore. He should run for Congress.

When he is telling the truth—that is when I can really see the man—child that he is. He fidgets, hands wiggling in his pockets or playing with any object within reach. His inflection changes, and the pitch of his voice is higher. He sounds, and acts, like an adolescent boy. I half-expect to hear "Mo-om!" fall out of his mouth.

I know, I know, it's not right. It's not right for a psychiatrist to be so in love with an unrepentant, untruthful con artist. I should be trying to help him understand his pathology, deal with his illness, find the strength to change. Instead, I enjoy him thoroughly. I delight in his fictions. They make the moments of truth so much sweeter to savor.

There have been many moments of truth lately.

Thanks to you.

The English language is woefully ill-equiped to express concepts like what you and Tomas went through. After you two were—recovered? Rescued? Salvaged? Saved?

After you two came home, battered and bruised and scarred in a million tiny ways, I didn't expect you to stay. I expected you to stick around long enough to let the worst of your injuries heal, and then you would disappear into the night, like you had countless times before.

But you didn't.

You stayed, and together we put Tomas back together.

You were by his side during the many sleepless nights his nightmares kept the whole house awake. You were there during the suicide attempt. You stayed through the long silences, and the tears, and the fights, and all the pent-up pain that finally ebbed, and receeded, and healed.

Being the introspective son-of-a-bitch that you have accused me of being so many times, I also acknowledge that there are two more words I need to say to you.

I'm sorry.

Alex, I am so sorry.

You are so strong, and we were so blind.

We were so wrapped up in Tomas, that we forgot that there were two rape survivors in the house, not just one. We forgot that both of you had descended into hell and clawed your way back to the light. We forgot that both of you were victims of Luis' casual cruelty and sociopathic seductions.

And, on the infrequent intervals when I would remember, you would brush off my expressions of concern and direct my attention back to my patient—Tomas. He was the focus of all of my time, energy and commitment for those first four months.

You seemed to be dealing with it so well.

I should have known better. I'm a psychiatrist, for g_d's sake. I spent two years in medical school and another four in residency learning how to help people like you. And I completely missed it.

I thought you were handling it fine on your own.

I didn't realize at the time you were just waiting until Tomas was strong enough for you to break down.

You waited sixteen weeks. Sixteen weeks of helping Tomas, at the expense of your own pain. Sixteen weeks of recovering on your own from brutality that I can barely imagine.

Then, once he was through the worst of it, and mostly back to the man he was before Luis came into our lives, you finally gave in to your demons.

Your first psychotic break took us all by surprise. Tomas and I woke up one morning and you had vanished in the night. I was so scared, Alex. I was terrified you hadn't left voluntarily. I was scared that we were on a search that would only end when we discovered your body. It took us five hours to find you, hiding in the tree house out back, ranting incoherently about 'hidden microphones' and 'eavesdropping devices' and 'video cameras in the walls.' You were petrified of going back inside the house, convinced that he could hear and see everything you said, everything you did. You insisted that you wanted to move into the tree house. That would have been an acceptable option, except that it was February and there was six inches of snow on the ground.

It took both of us, Tomas and I, trying to convince you and Xanax dissolved in your hot cocoa to get you out of the tree house and into the warmth of our home before frostbite could set in.

The next day, after I coaxed you into the car and over to Marya's office for your first therapy appointment, Marya cornered me next to the coffee maker. She wondered, rightfully so, why a psychiatrist like myself would allow a rape and torture survivor like yourself wait four months before seeking treatment and end up so severely damaged as to need hospitalization .

I wish I'd a better answer for her other than "I'm in love."

It took almost two weeks in a locked ward and a month of Haldol before you were back to some semblance of what you had been before. No, not before Luis turned you both into rabbits and palmed you like a magician. Before your breakdown. Before your tired and battered psyche stopped fighting off the voices in your head. Before you drowned.

Marya is an excellent therapist, with years of experience helping people who have been through—I was going to say 'similar situations,' but there really aren't any. There aren't any psychologists who specialize in treating men who were kidnapped and turned into a sociopath's fuck-toy and punching bag.

I'm sorry, Alex. I'm sorry I was so wrapped up in Tomas, and my love for him, that I never saw your pain. I'm sorry I didn't push harder when you brushed off my gentle probing with a curt "I'm fine, Doctor. Your patient is upstairs." I'm sorry I let it go for so long that your sanity and your future may now be in doubt.

I know that you and Tomas were lovers while you were trapped on the island with Luis. Whether coerced, or drugged, or offered voluntarily as a momentary distraction from the hell you were living in, I don't know. Tomas mentioned it in passing, and I never dared bring it up with you. What would your response have been? A flat denial? A cold glare? Nothing at all?

You are a part of us now, Alex. You are the third leg of the triangle. Without you, everything that we are falls apart.

It's your turn to be the sick one. It's your turn to get well. It's our turn to help you.

Love, Dio.

Merlin stared off into space for a long time, thoughts spinning in the early summer wind through the open bathroom window. He could smell the rain in the air, feel the electricity carried between the nitrogen and oxygen atoms that signaled a storm was on its way in. Pulling himself from his reverie, he carefully refolded the letter and placed it back in its hiding place. He pulled himself to his feet and out the door, feeling much older than his twenty-nine years as his bones creaked and muscles ached. He paused for one more long look at the young man asleep on his couch, and then upstairs, to bed.

Before he reached his room, he had a flash of inspiration. He rummaged around in the clean laundry basket at the top of the stairs, extracting a pair of almost-respectable running shorts and a white T- shirt. On impulse, he grabbed the cotton blanket off his bed. Quietly, he crept back downstairs and left the small pile of clothing on the coffee table next to the sleeping man sprawled across the couch. Resisting the urge to plant a kiss on Alex's forehead, Merlin carefully covered Alex's prone form with the blanket, turned and silently went back upstairs, seeking his own slumber.

###

The thunder and lightning of an early-morning summer storm didn't wake him. He curled up tighter under the covers, and let the thunderclouds sing him into dreamland.

The sound of the sliding glass door that led onto the porch being opened and closed instantly pulled him out of his slumbering haze. He woke up stupid, as usual, trying to figure out why there were noises coming from downstairs. He groped on the bedside table for his service revolver, and winced as the clock radio skittered off the edge of the glass tabletop and crashed to the floor, 6:15 staring at him in silent reproach. Then he was in motion, flowing silently towards and out the door, moving on cat feet, stalking. He didn't know what he would find when he reached the downstairs, but he was ready for it, wearing his boxers and a ratty t-shirt, carrying his 9mm.

::So what do the fashion-conscious wear when confronting an intruder?::

The living room was empty save a pile of clothing on the coffee table—different clothing than the night before. Alex's black velvet shirt, black jeans and boots were neatly folded, and Merlin's clothing was gone. So was Alex. Not in the bathroom. Not in the kitchen.

Merlin released the safety on his Sig Sauer service revolver, the click loud in the quiet house. He stalked toward the sliding glass door, the noise that drew him out of his slumber, the scene of the crime. A sudden lightning bolt illuminated the outside, followed by a deafening thunderclap that vibrated the windows. During the split second of bright, Merlin caught a good look at the back porch and the source of the noise.

Alex was standing on the porch, looking out into the early morning gloom, thoroughly soaked. His black hair was plastered tight against his skull, and his clothing was adhering to his chest and arms like glue. The red and black scorpion tattoo running the length of his left thigh stood out in sharp relief from his pale skin. Alex looked like some tortured Greek god, Apollo perhaps, or St. Sebastian once the arrows started to fly.

Then the room went dark again and all Merlin could see was his own reflection in the glass.

Quietly, with the efficiency of uncounted nights' practice, Merlin opened the sliding glass door. He stepped outside, mindful to stay under the limited protection of the small overhanging roof. He had spent nights here before, watching the seasons change, waiting for the worst of that particular night's bad dreams to fade from technicolor to gray and yellow.

::Are these your nightmares I'm watching, Alex?::

"Alex." Quietly.

Alex didn't even register his presence, face searching the heavens through closed eyelids, raindrops sliding down his wet cheeks and dripping off his wet hair like tears.

Alex was still caught inside the gauzy murkiness of his accelerated exit from dreamland. His head felt hollow, his eyes burned from the inside. Scorched earth. Bruises. Nightmares he could barely remember once he woke, nothing but shadows and the feeling of hands on his skin. He wanted to wash the dirty touch off him, stand under a scalding hot shower spray and scrub until his skin was raw and bloody. But he couldn't. It would entail explaining to Merlin, one more in a long line of explanations. He had already shown too much. Much too much. He felt dangerously exposed, vulnerable. How long before the disgust started to seep into Merlin's eyes, before the inevitable humiliation began?

"Alex." A little louder.

Merlin knew what he would see when Alex turned towards him. Red- rimmed eyes surrounded by dark circles. Proof of a hard night. Proof of another morning washing off the aftereffects of nighmares. Proof of weakness.

::Letting the rain wash away the evidence of your tears, Alex?::

"Alex, there is a perfectly good working shower upstairs. If you had only asked..."

Alex turned towards him, green eyes the color of the ocean before a storm. He stared at Merlin, and for one brief second, something unidentifiable flashed behind his eyes. Relief? Longing? Then Alex smiled, and the sun came out from behind the storm clouds.

"Are you done wearing the hair shirt, Alex? If so, get your ass inside. And don't drip on the floor, or I'll make you clean it up..." Merlin held the sliding glass door open, ushered Alex in with a gentle hand on the small of his back.

"Does the offer of a hot shower still stand?" His voice was quiet, hesitant, unsure.

"Certainly. Let me show you where the clean towels are. I'm not the best housekeeper..."

Suddenly Alex needed to get away, away from Merlin's solicitous concern, away from the pity he knew he would see in the older man's face. "It... it's all right. I need to make a phone call. I'll find everything I need." Alex pulled away from Merlin's touch, veered sharply down the hallway and disappeared onto the stairs.

Merlin stood frozen in place, watching Alex walk away.

::What the fuck was that all about?::

###

Chapter Eight—Little Maniac

"How many arrows
must I shoot into the blue?
Aye, you little maniac—
I'm crazy over you."
—"Driving With Your Eyes Closed"
by Don Henley

Alex came back downstairs almost an hour later, ghost-quiet, hiding in shadows, a spectre with towel-dry hair. Merlin was bent over the cutting board, intently chopping green leaves, and felt rather than heard the younger man enter the room.

"I... I called Tomas and Dio. They'll be catching a flight to Washington this afternoon. They'll call me when they have arrival time and gate info."

Merlin nodded, careful not to look directly at Alex. Alex was skittish, a feral cat tricked into coming inside out of the rain, ready to bolt for the nearest door at the slightest hint of threat or provocation. Merlin was determined not to give him that provocation.

"Sounds good. Why don't we take my car to pick them up at the airport? I doubt you could get both of them and their luggage here on your bike." Merlin was smiling. Small talk. Threatless. Harmless.

"Yeah, you're right. I hadn't thought of that. My synapses don't seem to be firing with any sort of efficiency this morning." After a moment's pause, almost an afterthought, "Thanks, Merlin."

Merlin turned from the cutting board to glance at Alex. Alex had obviously raided his clean clothing basket. He was now wearing Merlin's favorite cut-off black sweatpants and his Washington Wizards t-shirt. Merlin admired the way his clothing fitted itself to Alex's body, hugging the tight muscles in his legs and his broad chest. Merlin felt a sizzle of electricity run up his spine at the thought of Alex wearing his clothing, at the connected thought of removing Alex from his clothing.... All the blood from the middle region of his body started the long trek towards his crotch.

::Down, boy. That's the last thing he needs right now—you drooling over him. Repeat after me—it ain't gonna happen, it ain't gonna happen...::

By force of will alone, Merlin redirected his gaze at the cutting board in front of him. The herbs he had been chopping were now thoroughly pulverized, and his grip on the handle of the chopping knife was just short of splintering the wood.

"How's your stomach feeling this morning, Alex?"

Alex shrugged.

"I'm whipping up some breakfast, Alex. Nothing heavy or spicy, just a little casserole with cheese and eggs. You think you can keep it down?"

Alex stared at Merlin, voice naiveté personified, eyes full of mischief. Trying to look innocent and failing miserably. "You can cook?"

Merlin sighed exasperatedly. "Why is everyone so dumbfounded when they find me in my own kitchen? Yes, I can cook. Quite well, if I do say so myself. I like to eat, and I got sick of take-out three meals a day, so I taught myself how to cook. Why is this such a shock to people's system?"

Alex laughed. "Most people associate single men cooking with show tunes and season tickets to the ballet. You just don't seem to be that type. Now, I live with two men who happen to have season tickets to the ballet, and both are fantastic cooks. I never bother to exercise my rusty cooking skills because there's no need."

Merlin arched his eyebrow in Alex's direction. "You can cook."

"Ayup." Alex moved in from the doorway to the butcher-block kitchen table and sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs.

"And you can speak... how many languages are you up to this week?"

"Speaking? Eight. Reading and writing? Six."

"And you run your own successful business."

"Tomas and I do, yes."

"Damn, boy—is there anything you can't do?"

Alex laughed again, and the electric sparks returned to jump under Merlin's skin. "There are a hell of a lot of things I can't do. I can't read a map, can't draw a straight line, can't throw a football to save my life, have hideous taste in clothing, and have never been able to make a long-term relationship work. How about you, Mr. 'FBI- Agent-And-Gourmet-Cook'? What else can you do?"

"Can do? Or can't do?"

"Start with the shorter list, Merlin. Can do."

"Hmm." Merlin pondered as he removed the eggs and cheese from the fridge. He pulled an old-fashioned box grater and a bowl out of the cabinet over the stove and handed them to Alex across the counter island. "Make yourself useful—grate the cheese."

Alex saluted. "Yes, sir." He retrieved the cheese from the counter and unwrapped it from the plastic. "Emmenthaler—my favorite. Excellent choice, Merlin."

"Alex, if you start on the Cheese Shop skit from Monty Python, I will be forced to hurt you."

"I'll resist the almost overwhelming temptation to wax poetic on the subject of cheesy comestibles. I'm still waiting for your list."

Merlin retrieved a small blue and white crockery bowl from the dishwasher and broke four eggs into it. "What can I do? Let's see. We already covered the fact that I'm a damn fine cook. I have a second degree black belt in hopkido. I can change my own oil and spark plugs. My memory is somewhere to the left of phenomenal. I have sharpshooter certification." He walked back over to the dishwasher, extracted a fork, and started beating the eggs in a smooth, practiced motion. "I'm in serious danger of quoting Robert Heinlein if I keep going, so I'll stop here before my ego gets any more bloated."

"How did a notorious pervert like Robert Heinlein sneak into this conversation?"

"He's not a pervert." Merlin added the herbs to the beaten eggs, and mixed. "Just because he has a yen for barely legal redheads..."

"Ouch! Ebat'-kopat'!" Alex waved his right hand in the air, still gripping the block of emmenthaler, blood dripping from two knuckles. "Your stupid grater bit me, Merlin!" Alex put the first injured knuckle in his mouth, licking off the blood. The sight of Alex sucking on his own fingers sent the hormones in Merlin's body into a frenzied lambada, and most of the blood from his brain on a quick trek southward.

"Alex, do you need an ambulance, or just a band-aid?" Droll.

::Play it cool, Merlin, and do not offer to help him lick the blood off his knuckles!::

Alex stopped sucking on his finger and examined the other injured digit. "Don't bother. It's only a flesh wound."

"Let me guess—if it scars, you'll just get another tattoo, right?"

"Are you fucking nuts? Do you have any idea how much it hurts to tattoo right over bone? No, thank you. I'm not into pain." Alex handed Merlin back the bowl, half-full of grated cheese and sprinkled with a few drops of red. "And I don't really understand the appeal of it, to be brutally honest."

Merlin dumped the egg and herb mixture into the bowl with the grated cheese. "Would you like me to explain it to you?"

Before Alex could answer, the cordless phone on the table rang. Alex picked up the phone with his non-injured hand, looked at it for a second, contemplated answering it, thought better of the idea, and gently lobbed it to Merlin. Merlin caught it gracefully and switched it on.

"Mulder."

Alex found the use of Merlin's real name a little startling—sort of like calling your parents by their first names. Inappropriate. Out of place. Wrong. This was Merlin, not Fox Mulder.

::Anyways, what kind of self-respecting parents name their child Fox? Hippies, probably. Dollars to donuts he has a sister named Raven and a brother named Bird::

"Umm, yes. Can you hold on a moment, sir?"

Merlin put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and talked to Alex. "It's my boss. I need to talk to him for a moment. I'm going to be outside on the porch, OK?"

Alex shrugged, face blank, eyes shuttered. Merlin was beginning to intensely dislike that expression. "It's your house, Merlin."

Merlin nodded his thanks and walked to the sliding glass door. Once outside, he put the phone back to his ear.

"Sorry about that, sir. I thought discretion might be the better part of sensible in this situation."

"Probably a smart assessment, Agent." Skinner's voice, normally deep and husky, was even more bass than usual. Merlin wondered if his deputy chief had just woken up. Unbidden, the image of his boss lying in bed, wearing nothing but white silk boxer shorts, slid into his head. His hormones, tantalized by Alex, sprung into full awake mode.

::What is with you today, Merlin? Someone put Viagra in your water?::

"Agent Mulder, I contacted Judge Peterman. He agreed that a meeting was most likely a good idea, but was concerned about the safety issue, as am I. His family is in hiding..."

"He has a family, sir?"

"Yes, Agent. He has two sons and a wife."

"Alex has siblings." Musing. Wondering if Alex had ever wanted a younger brother or sister

"Who?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Peter Cryder now goes by the name Alex. Alex Krycek. I was just..." A thought shot like a lightning bolt across his brain, obliterating the track of the conversation. "Oh, my."

"What is it, Agent Mulder? Is everything all right?" Full Deputy Chief mode. In charge. Assessing possible threats.

Merlin shook his head. "It's not that, sir. I just realized something. His mother named him Peter, after his biological father, Hal Peterman. That must have been such a slap in the face for her husband, to be constantly reminded that the child wasn't his. Why would she do that?"

"That's a good question, Agent Mulder, for another time." Skinner brought the conversation back on topic with the ease of long practice. "Judge Peterman will be meeting me at my office tomorrow afternoon at 3 PM. I want the two of you to meet me there. After that, we have transportation arranged to get him to a safe house in West Virginia until the trial is over. Have you explained to him what will be happening, Agent?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Why not?"

::Because when he's around, I have trouble getting enough blood to my brain?::

"He's not in good shape right now, sir. I doubt he has had more than an hour or two of sleep in the past day and a half. When I came downstairs this morning, he was standing outside in the middle of a rainstorm, and had most likely been there for some time. He's had a hell of a shock, and I don't think he's dealing with it very well. His two housemates will be flying in this evening. After they arrive, I'll sit him down and explain the situation and his options."

"I don't like the idea of involving other civilians in the equation, but if you think it is necessary, I will trust your judgment." Don't let me down, Agent Mulder was unspoken, but clearly understood.

"I appreciate your trust in me, sir. I will have the report ready for you by 3 PM tomorrow."

"Keep me informed on any additional developments, Agent Mulder." The phone went dead in Merlin's hand.

When Merlin returned to the kitchen, Alex was sitting at the kitchen table, head buried in his hands, black hair falling in his face. He looked up at Merlin, an unreadable expression in his eyes, his face blank.

"So, Merlin, explain the situation and my options." Voice so cold there were icicles dripping off it.

::Oh, fuck. Damage control time::

Merlin felt his face sliding back into his Agent Mulder mask— professional, businesslike, revealing absolutely nothing of what was going on behind his hazel eyes. The mask of a man who had witnessed every atrocity humans can inflict on one another. A survivor's mask.

Merlin walked over to the fridge, opened it, and started rummaging around before he realized he had no clue what he was looking for. He quickly pulled out the milk and bread, and put them all on the island next to the blue ceramic bowl. Kicking the fridge door shut with his foot, he took the half-eaten loaf of Italian bread out of its wrapper and started tearing it into bite-sized pieces.

"How much did you hear, Alex?" Not cold, but not friendly either.

Alex shrugged. "Enough." He caught Merlin's eyes and pointed at the kitchen window. It stood open, and was only a few feet from the porch where he had been talking.

Merlin's hands tightened on the loaf of bread, which crumbled under his grip.

"Fine, Alex. Here's the situation and your options." Merlin continued to tear the bread into tinier and tinier pieces. "The Colombian mob is looking for you. Luis Christien is looking for you. The FBI and the Justice Department are looking for you. It wouldn't surprise me if the IRS is looking for you as well."

"Considering how much I pay my accountant, the IRS had damn well better not be looking for me."

Merlin ignored the interruption. "If either of the first two players on the list find you, you're dead. Period. Game over. Until the end of the trial, which is at least two weeks away, your life is essentially forfeit. Your best bet is to help the last two players bring down the first two players."

Merlin took a good look at Alex, still sitting at the table, head in his hands. He was pale, colorless, and the black t-shirt highlighted his ashen skin tone. He looked almost as bad as he had the night before, just prior to losing his dinner into the toilet.

"Alex, your best bet is to go underground—way underground—and wait out the end of the trial. The FBI has the facilities and the manpower to protect you. We have a safe house outside of Wheeling, West Virginia. No one will be able to find you there."

"No."

"What do you mean, No?"

"You're wrong. Luis will be able to find me, no matter where I hide."

Did you really think you could run away from me, Kitten? I know you. I know your smell. I know your heartbeat. I know your taste. I could locate you in a city of a million people, just by following your scent. Where did you think you could hide on an island this small?

You belong to me now, Kitten. You can run as far and as fast as you like. I will always find you

stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it

Alex and Merlin sat in their respective places in silence for a long time.

"Merlin?" Quiet voice. Little-boy voice again.

"Yes, Alex?" Merlin was stirring the bread crumbs into the egg mixture. The crumbs were much more finely ground than the recipe called for, the victim of Merlin's anger and frustration.

"You said that the Justice Department and the FBI have been looking for Peter Cryder for a while." Alex was staring out the window, intentionally avoiding looking in Merlin's direction

Merlin nodded, adding basil and oregano to the ceramic bowl. "We found out about your existence over three months ago. We've been searching for you ever since."

"There must be files on me."

"There are several files with information about you, yes." Merlin did not like the direction this conversation was heading. Not one bit.

"I need to see them."

Merlin took one deep breath, then another, carefully considering his response while he tasted the egg-cheese-spice mixture.

"Alex, if it was up to me, I would let you see them. Unfortunately, I can't. Some of them are sealed evidence files. Others contain classified information, and you do not have any sort of security clearance. I wish I could, Alex, but it's out of my control."

"I. Need. To. See. My. File." Cold. Clipped. Hard.

"Alex, you can't see your file. It's not going to happen. I'm sorry."

Alex spun away from the window and glared at Merlin from across the kitchen island. "Fine. You've seen my file, haven't you?"

"Yes, I've seen your file. I'm one of the agents working on your case." Merlin sprayed a fine mist of aerosol non-stick cooking spray in a square glass-baking dish, before dumping the contents of the blue ceramic bowl into it.

"Tell me what's in it." Not a request.

::What are you so afraid you'll find in those pages, Alex? Which flesh-and-bone secrets are buried there that you're terrified will be unearthed?::

"It's scary, isn't it, Alex? Knowing all your secrets are inscribed in 28 bond paper, laid out for anyone with a high enough security clearance to see?" Gentle, calm. Not looking directly at Alex, not spooking the wild cat sitting at his kitchen table. Focusing on setting the oven temperature and timer, then putting the glass pan on the rack and closing the door with an ominous metallic clang.

"Quit fucking with my head, Merlin." Snarl. Back to the corner, frantically looking for a way out.

"There's a lot of ugliness in that file, Alex. There are medical records going back to before you could walk. Lots and lots of trips to the hospital, lots of domestic disturbance calls to the police — it's a thick file. Why don't you tell me which incident in particular has got you so terrified, and I'll tell you if it's in there."

Alex was gripping the table so hard Merlin was surprised that pieces of wood weren't coming off in his hands. His eyes were almost black with rage, and Merlin wondered how much protection the kitchen island would provide if Alex attacked him.

"You don't know anything!" Frantic. High-pitched. Cracks in the veneer. "You don't know shit about me! You don't know what it feels like, having fictions and lies with the official FBI seal of approval, open to anyone who wants to see..."

"There's a file at the FBI building with my name on it, Alex." Quiet, steel behind the voice. Jaw clenched. Eyes too bright. "I know exactly what it feels like."

Alex froze mid-sentence, and stared at Merlin. He didn't believe, he didn't want to believe, but the expression on Merlin's face was proof. Positive proof.

"You... you have a file?"

"I have a file that's thicker than yours is."

"What's in your file, Merlin?"

Merlin stared out the window for a long moment, his mind a million miles away and sixteen years ago. He took another deep breath, walked over to the butcher-block table and sat down in the hard wooden bench next to Alex.

Outside, the rain kept falling, the sky shedding the tears neither man was willing to cry.

"I have..." He shook his head. "I had a sister. Samantha. Three years younger than I." Voice flat, inflectionless. Phone-book-reading voice.

::What is the appropriate verb tense for a tragedy? To be. Etre. Won't work. I don't know if she's alive or dead::

"When I was twelve, she disappeared. Poof—up in smoke. One night she was there when I went to bed, the next morning she was gone when I came downstairs for breakfast. The police conducted an investigation, but they didn't find any clues. Zip, zero, nada. As far as they could tell, she evaporated. My nine-year old sister just fucking vanished."

Alex took a quick glance at Merlin's hands clenched in his lap. They were trembling. Merlin continued talking in that disembodied voice. Calm voice. Too calm. Unnaturally calm.

"Two and a half months later, the police receive an anonymous tip in my sister's disappearance. They raided a safety deposit box at the local bank. Inside the box were photographs..." Merlin's voice choked. He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. Alex rested one hand on Merlin's shoulder, reassuring.

"Merlin, we don't have to talk about this."

"It's all right, Alex. It's been seventeen years—I should be able to discuss it rationally, like an adult. Anyways, it's only fair. After everything you told me last night, you deserve to know a little of my dirt in exchange."

"Merlin, we're not..."

"Alex, hush. I want to tell you, OK?"

Alex nodded, bit his tongue, sat quietly.

Merlin took a deep breath, swallowed hard. "In the safe deposit box, they found photographs." Another deep breath. Alex squeezed Merlin's shoulder, mute support. "The photographs were of me and my sister, engaged in sex acts with various men."

Merlin's hazel eyes met Alex's green ones. Two haunted men, sharing secrets in glances and invisible communications in a look. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Merlin looked away, out the window, into the drizzle.

"As you can imagine, the police were all over that like white on rice. The safety deposit box was rented by my father's attorney. The fingerprints on the photos belonged to him, my father, and my mother. Apparently the three of them were selling the photographs.

My parents were both arrested, along with their attorney, and charged with possession of child pornography with intent to distribute. Federal crime, class B felony. Having sex with a minor is only a class D felony.

I was taken out of school before lunch on a Tuesday and brought down to the police station. I was questioned by two FBI agents for six hours, before I was released into the custody of Child Protective Services. I went right from there to an emergency foster home.

My foster parents, the Harrises, were nice enough people, but I don't think they knew what they were getting themselves into. I withdrew so far into myself that I was practically nonexistent for the first month. I don't think I said more than a couple of words to either of them for at least a week after I got there. None of it was really happening. It was all a bad dream. I would wake up and be back at my house, with my sister, and my parents. That was my mantra—it wasn't real.

I have an eidetic memory, Alex—did you know that?"

Alex shook his head. "There's a lot of things I didn't know about you, Merlin."

Merlin smiled, purely facial muscles, no warmth. "I remember everything that ever happened to me—no matter how inconsequential. Stupid shit, like the play the drama club staged when I was in ninth grade, word for word. Every Shakespearean sonnet I ever read. The contents of case files I worked years ago. My brain is a black hole— once the information goes in, it never gets out.

I don't remember anything that's on those photographs. I try to recollect the memories around them, that day, that hour, and my brain just slides off it like it's made of glass. It's the same way the night before my sister disappeared. I remember that afternoon clearly. That evening... it's not accessible. Password-protected. Overwrite-protected.

When I try to remember that night, my brain gets fixated on little things. Like the nightgown she was wearing. Like the shape of the window. Like little snatches of conversation coming from downstairs. It's as if my memory gets stuck in a groove and can't pull itself out. It just repeats the same image, over and over again.

I wonder if I saw her murder. I wonder if that's why I'm so fucked in the head.

I spent six years studying psychology at Oxford University. I have my Ph.D. in Clinical Psych. I did all of that hoping to gain some small insight into what's trapped inside my skull. It's so close, Alex. I know it's up here. I keep thinking that if I come at it in just the right way, in just the right light, at just the right angle, I'll be able to see it. I'll be able to remember. But it never works. Just another in the long list of Fox Mulder failures...

The answer to my sister's disappearance is up here." Merlin tapped his forehead with his index finger, voice little more than a whisper. "And I can't get to it."

::Inside you're ugly
ugly like me::

Merlin sat on the bench for a long moment, staring at his hands clutched in his lap, looking every inch the scared, sad boy-child whose sister had been stolen from him. Desolate. Alone. Clarity flashing through his brain, Alex knew what he needed to do, what Merlin needed him to do. Alex gave in to the impulse. In one smooth movement, Alex scooted off his chair and onto the bench next to Merlin. Before Merlin could say anything, protest, object, Alex had pulled the older man into a hug, into his arms.

Merlin smelled of rain, of laundry soap, and tired human.

Merlin went completely still. Frigid.

::What the hell are you doing, Alex?::
::Giving him what he needs::

Alex pulled him closer, his breath warm in Merlin's ear, on his neck. Merlin rested his head on Alex's shoulder, letting Alex's heartbeat echo loudly in his ear. Merlin's short hair flowed through Alex's fingers like oil on water, slippery, silky. Merlin relaxed microscopically as one of Alex's hands found the tight corded tendons in Merlin's neck and started a gentle massage. The other hand continued its sensual glide through Merlin's short hair.

After a moment, Merlin pulled out of the embrace, composed himself on the bench, still pressed thigh and arm against Alex. Alex looked at him, head cocked to one side, a gentle smile on his face, curiosity in his eyes.

"Thank you, Merlin."

Incomprehension and disbelief fought for supremacy in Merlin's handsome scarred face. "For what?"

::He's thanking me for losing it in front of him. He's crazier than I gave him credit for::

"For trusting me. For caring about what's fair. For wanting things to be even between us. I understand what you're doing, and it means a lot to me." That sweet, gentle smile was back, and for a moment, all was right in the world.

Merlin sat stiffly on the bench, a few inches away from Alex, studying the younger man's face out of the corner of his eye. Debating. Deciding. Trying to resist temptation and failing miserably.

::Oh, what the hell::

Merlin carefully turned his upper body towards Alex and reached one hand up, resting it behind Alex's neck. Slowly, so slowly, Merlin leaned over and barely brushed his lips against the younger man's. Merlin felt the spill of Alex's body heat spike, felt Alex's pulse race under his lips. The contact lengthened, deepened, sweetened as Alex pushed into the kiss, seeking more.

The air in the room was crackling with ozone, with energy irrelevant of the thunderstorm outside. Skin meeting skin, lips touching lips, tongues, mouths, creating their own electricity. Sparks jumping under velvet skin, between two bodies, generating heat, generating need.

Alex broke the contact first, panting, flushed, eyes bright, gasping for air, wiping his sweat-slicked bangs off his forehead.

::so beautiful you are::

Alex was laughing, resting his head on Merlin's shoulder, breath tickling the collar of his t-shirt, sending electric shocks down Merlin's spine.

"What's so funny, Alex?" Out-of-breath. Out-of-control.

Alex waved one hand around airily, casually, still chuckling. "This. You. Everything. Last night. This morning. Kissing you. It's just so... so...."

"Strange?"

"No... Perfect. It's perfect."

###

Chapter Nine—This Ain't the Time

You swore to yourself a long time ago
There were some things that people never needed to know
This ain't the time
And this ain't the place
And neither's any other day
—"Code of Silence"
by Billy Joel

"Merlin, I'm shocked. You never struck me as an early-nik." Alex checked his watch for the twelfth time in the last ten minutes. It kept saying the same thing—Tomas and Dio's flight wouldn't be arriving for another half an hour. Alex scanned the ARRIVALS screen on the TV display set ten feet above their heads at gate A-14 of Washington National Airport. No new news there—flight 110 from O'Hare would be arriving at 6:15. Alex checked his watch again. 5:47.

"Perhaps that's the problem here." Merlin stretched out his jean-clad legs, trying to work out the kink in his back from the uncomfortable molded plastic airport seat.

"And what problem would that be?" Alex watched Merlin try to find a comfortable position, while appreciating the long legs and slim hips so invitingly displayed in front of him. Merlin knew that Alex was watching him with rapt attention, and gave in to the urging of his exhibitionistic imp.

"The problem is NOT that I never struck you as an early-nik. The problem IS that I haven't struck you nearly often enough. I have obviously been seriously lax in said department. This is, however, an easily remediable situation. How do you feel about riding crops?"

"Kurite moju trubku, Merlin." Sea-green eyes flashing black for just a second, then back to their normal wary countenance.

Merlin laughed, an evil sounding chuckle. "I have no earthly idea what you just said, but it didn't sound like an invitation. A pity, really. I was so looking forward to introducing you to the joys of ball gags and cat-o-nine-tails..."

The older woman sitting directly behind Merlin and Alex, dressed in her 'grandma's best' clothes, gasped in shock, horrified by the words coming out of Merlin's mouth. She grabbed her purse with a loud huff and quickly moved to another seat, a scandalized expression on her wrinkled face.

"Was it something I said?"

Alex looked at Merlin, at the look of utter bewildered innocence, so at odds with the mischievous gleam in his eye, and started laughing. The entire conversation was surreal. The entire weekend was surreal. His entire life was a piece of surrealistic art—why should this be any different? He looked at the clock again, as much to check the time as to gauge its degree of meltedness.

"You are quite a piece of work, Merlin—you know that? Only you would talk S&M in the middle of Washington National and look like a choirboy at the same time."

"Would you believe that I was a choirboy?"

Alex's eyes made a slow, measured assessment of the man sitting next to him. Lean, athletic body wrapped in jeans and a gray T-shirt, mercurial smile capable of lighting up a room, hazel eyes that missed nothing, light brown hair with gold threads that danced in the late- afternoon sunlight streaming through the thick airport windows.

"You? A choirboy? Nyaah. You were the boy who got kicked out of catechism class for putting goldfish in the holy water font. Twisted you were, even back then."

Something—some unidentified emotion—was sparking and arcing between the two men. The air in the room snapped and crackled like Morse code, shooting sparks visible to the naked eye. Words were spoken in the silences between sentences; in the careful spaces around topics neither were willing to touch upon. Words of caring, words of gratitude, words as building blocks, building the foundations.

###

"The real miracle, Merlin, isn't that Tomas and Dio ended up together. That was practically pre-ordained. No, the miracle is that I'm in the equation at all."

Alex had spent most of the past half an hour entertaining Merlin with stories of Tomas and Dio—how they met, their courtship, their subsequent adventures of families and coming out. Nothing was ever mentioned of Luis, or of islands, or of unpleasantries of any sort. The two men tiptoed around sensitive topics like two accident victims, each unwilling to cause the other any unnecessary pain. Alex was quite the storyteller, reducing Merlin to hysterical laughter more than once as he described Dio's excruciatingly proper parent's reaction when Dio brought his significantly younger male lover home for Thanksgiving.

"Why is that a miracle, Alex? You and Tomas have been friends since elementary school. It's no big surprise that you're still friends now." Merlin fiddling with his coke and popcorn, once again trying to settle in the uncomfortable orange seats as comfortably as possible without wearing either.

"The miracle is that Tomas found it in himself to forgive me, not once but twice."

Merlin looked up from his juggling act, and met Alex's sea-green gaze. Hazel eyes evaluating, considering, contemplating. Psychologist eyes. Alex could see the gears turning, as Merlin decided carefully what words to use, how to unpeel this particular orange thought puzzle.

"What did you do that you needed to be forgiven for, Alex?" Soft- spoken words, intense look.

"It wasn't what I did that I needed to be forgiven for. It was what I failed to do, twice."

"What did you fail to do?"

Alex's eyes were in his lap, avoiding Merlin's hazel gaze. "I was supposed to protect him. It's what I do, why I'm in his life. And I failed. Twice."

"Was Luis one of those failures?"

Alex nodded, eyes glued to the orange plastic chair in front of him. "The other was a long time ago, when we were both kids. I couldn't keep him safe then. I can't keep him safe now. I don't know why the hell he keeps me around."

"**May I have your attention, please. Flight 110 from Chicago is now arriving at gate A-14.**"

Alex looked at Merlin, and some unidentifiable expression flashed across Alex's eyes for just a second before everything disappeared off his face. Merlin analyzed the scrap of emotion, chewed on it like a dog with a particularly juicy bone. Nervousness? Somewhat. Embarassment? Yes, but more intense. Shame? That was it.

::What do you have to be ashamed of, Alex? You didn't do anything wrong. No matter what you may think, it's not your fault::

"Alex, it's not your fault." The words fell out of Merlin's mouth before he could shut them down.

Alex startled, nearly fell off the chair. Jaw open, he looked at Merlin wide-eyed. "Oh, g_ds, not another one who can just waltz into my brain like my forehead is a welcome mat." Quietly, almost to himself. "The last thing I need are more telepaths in my life."

Merlin was framing a question in his head when Tomas and Dio walked off the gangplank and into the airport, holding hands. Merlin had heard a lot about the two of them from Alex, but they looked nothing like what he expected.

Tomas was, to put it mildly, startlingly attractive. Model-handsome. Long legs and arms, lightly muscled, testimony to many hours spent at the gym working out. Small frame, delicate bones, 5' 10 if he stretched it. Light brown hair, cut short on the sides and back, longer on the top. Sapphire-blue eyes. Wide open face, high cheekbones. Gleaming white teeth. A smile that lit up his face as he gazed at his lover, Dio.

Dio appeared to be exactly what he was—a professional who worked with children all day. He was a few inches taller than Tomas' 5'10, and substantially heavier, bordering on overweight. Where on Tomas there were angles and muscles, on Dio there were curves, softness. Blonde hair, a bit on the shaggy side, full beard and mustache, neatly trimmed. His entire demeanor whispered, "I am safe—you can trust me." He looked at Tomas with a mixture of annoyance, amusement and undying adoration.

"Dio, calling him a gun enthusiast is like calling an addict a heroin fancier. I swear if I hear the asshole refer to 'the coming race war' one more time I'll..."

Tomas's commentary was interrupted as Alex stepped out from the row of chairs right in front of the two men. Tomas looked up, flashed a brilliant smile, and immediately swept the larger man into a Tomas hug. Alex tensed for a moment and then relaxed into the contact, his face a mixture of happiness and embarrassment. Tomas released him, and Alex stepped away, just out of reach.

"Alex! Damn, your phone call this morning scared both of us to death. Are you all right? Did he..."

"I'm fine, Tomas." Alex brushed off the concern, uncomfortable. Head down, mumbling slightly. "Just a couple of bruises. You've done more damage to me with a rattan sword."

Dio stood back and observed their interaction, the observer role a familiar one to him. The bruises on Alex's neck were garishly neon purple, blue and red, barely hidden by the collar of his black t- shirt. Alex looked exhausted—the rings under his eyes were bruise- dark, his skin way too pale. Dio wondered when the last time Alex had gotten a decent night's sleep or a good meal.

Dio caught Merlin's eye and smiled, recognizing the same expression of concern and affection that was on his own face. Dio idly wondered how deep the affection for his friend ran, and if Alex returned the feelings. He then turned his attention back to his lover's closest friend.

"Those are some impressive bruises you've got there. May I take a closer look?" Showing respect for Alex—asking before touching. Alex looked down, looked away, and a flash of color crossed his face. He fidgeted for a moment, and then nodded.

Dio's hands were cool, his manner professional. He obviously had experience treating Alex's injuries. He gently ran his fingers along the bruises that decorated Alex's neck, feeling for broken skin, welts, further damage to the fragile tissue underneath.

"Are you having any trouble swallowing, Alex? Any throat pain?"

Alex shook his head. "I know I should have iced it, but... I've had a lot of other things on my mind. It's been a rough twenty-four hours or so."

"I can imagine." Soothing tone. Patient. "When was the last time you got any decent sleep?"

"Um, nineteen ninety four?" Head down, Alex looked at Dio through lush eyelashes, like a child waiting to be scolded.

"Uh-huh. And how about the last decent meal? Or would that be the lasagna Tomas made before you left?"

"I had breakfast!" Petulant, starting to pout. "Ask Merlin. He was there. He can vouch for my food intake."

::So there. Nyaah::

Merlin stepped forward, meeting Tomas and Dio's curious gaze and Alex's relieved look. He stuck out his hand to Dio. "Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. But you can call me Merlin. He did eat breakfast. I have affidavits to prove it. I also cooked the damn thing."

kisses warm and soft and slow, tasting of sleep and rain and essence of Alex

Dio took Merlin's hand, shook it. Firm grip. "Dr. Ronald James, Psychiatrist. But you can call me Dio." Sizing Merlin up, one professional to another. Undertones of something else, something familial, protective. An outsider coming into the pack. "This is my partner, Tomas."

Tomas turned his best 200-killowat smile on the older man. "Are you really an FBI agent, and did you really cook breakfast? And what did Alex do to earn said breakfast?" Turning to Alex. "So, is he any good?"

Merlin just blinked. Alex squawked. "Tomas, I am so going to beat your ass..."

"Promise?" Tomas was batting his eyelashes in Alex's direction, outrageously flirting. Dio just stood back and watched the evening's entertainment, smiling. This show was in reruns—he had seen it many times before. The fact that the two of them could harass each other like this was, in his clinical opinion, a very good sign. For many months after their return, they didn't, couldn't. When Tomas would attempt his obnoxious sibling routine, Alex would freeze, or leave the room entirely. When Alex would throw insults around, Tomas would dissolve into tears. Dio despaired that the relationship between the two young men would be another casualty of Luis.

"Tomas," Alex's tone was exasperated, but with an undertone of warmth and love. "If I throw a stick, will you leave?"

Tomas's smile never wavered. "Sorry, Tex. You're stuck with me." He threw one arm around Alex's shoulders, and led the other man away from the gate. "Let's talk luggage. Then food. Then bed..."

"Are they always like that?"

Merlin's question jarred Dio out of his quiet enjoyment of his friend's outrageous antics. Dio looked carefully at the other man, searching for judgment in hazel eyes. Protectiveness bubbled in Dio, quickly smothered under his Dr. James persona.

"On a good day. Does their preferred method of interacting bother you?"

"Bother, no." Merlin recognized the change in voice tone, fought the impulse to fight cold with cold. "It was just unexpected. Almost as unexpected as you perceiving me as a threat."

Dio arched an eyebrow at Merlin, unblinking stare. Alpha male challenge. "After what they went through, I'm very protective of both of them. Tomas may be my life partner, but Alex is one of my closest friends. Think what you want of me and my motives, but I will not apologize for being cautious."

::I nearly lost them once. I'm not taking any risks::

Merlin looked at Dio for a long moment, then broke eye contact, glancing away. Acknowledging beta status. Stepping away from the challenge. Merlin looked around, noticed that both Alex and Tomas had stopped walking, and in fact were staring at himself and Dio, hands on hips.

"Are you two done with your pissing contest? Or will you start beating your chest with your fists and doing your gorilla imitations next?" Tomas's question was directed at Dio, but obviously meant for both men. Dio looked at the floor and then back at his lover, two spots of color staining his cheeks.

"Can't help it, kid. You bring it out in me." The older man shrugged, looking at the floor. He didn't notice Tomas swooping in and enveloping Dio in a bear hug and a kiss.

"I don't mind a bit. Find it flattering, actually. I'm just not sure Alex feels the same way about your big brother protective act." Another 200 kilowatt smile, and a kiss on the cheek. "Besides, I'm hungry and tired. Can you two decide who has the higher testosterone levels after we find our luggage and get out of here? I'll even let you hunt and kill dinner..."

Tomas took Dio by the hand, led him toward the escalator and the baggage claim area, chirping happily about nothing. Alex and Merlin looked at each other for a long moment, each man waiting for the other's reactions.

Merlin broke first.

"Tomas is very..." Merlin paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully, "interesting. Is he always so extroverted?"

Alex smiled, and Merlin felt the glow go through his entire body down to the molecular level. "Actually, he's pretty subdued today. My run- in with Luis really scared him."

Merlin chuckled. "If that's subdued, what's he like chipper and bouncy?"

Alex gently rested his hand on Merlin's back, gently nudging the older man towards the escalator. "Noisy. Very musical. The boy can't carry a tune in a bucket, but he loves to belt out Gilbert and Sullivan at maximum volume. Earplugs are highly recommended. You hungry?"

"Starved. Let's round up the troops and go hunt and kill some dinner."

###

Chapter Ten—Let the Bullet

Holding my breath
Release the catch
And I let the bullet fly
—"Family Snapshot"
By Peter Gabriel

May in Washington, D.C. was beautiful. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom all around the Mall, their riotous pink and white blooms exploding dramatically like fireworks in front of an appreciative audience. Busloads of tourists from as close as Alexandria and as far away as Japan came to see the trees on parade, showing off their blossoms in a display almost garish in its grandeur. The air was slickly perfumed with blossom scent and the whispers of hundreds of awed onlookers.

Deep inside the ninth floor of the D.O.J. building, the perfume had long ago given up the fight. Here, the industrial disinfectant smell and the odor of nervous, stressed and tired humans had supremacy.

Deputy Chief Walter Skinner loved Sunday afternoons in the office, as much as he could say he loved any day spent within concrete walls. On Sunday afternoons, the phone didn't ring. The hallways were relatively deserted. There were no minor emergencies popping their heads up every two hours, screaming like newborns to be taken care of right away. There were no distractions to keep him from losing himself in preparations for the budgetary planning meetings that were the bane of his existence.

Except on this Sunday.

This Sunday, he had a small family reunion to stage.

He had called his P.A., Kim, earlier that morning, and politely requested that she come in for an hour or two this afternoon. He also bribed her with the promise of her favorite Mocha Latte Frappucino from the Starbucks around the corner after her short workday was done. Bribery worked amazingly well with her, and she worked amazingly well with him. This was why she had managed to last as his secretary for almost five years, when the longest tenure of any of her predecessors had been less than five months.

A few minutes before three o'clock, the intercom on his desk phone buzzed, disturbing his reverie.

"Deputy Chief Skinner, Agent Mulder and his guests are here."

"Please show them in."

Agent Mulder walked in first, followed by three other men. Fox "Merlin" Mulder was both a thorn in his professional side and possibly one of the most gifted young agents he had ever had under his command. His personnel file read like a seismograph of highs and lows, with a smattering of commendations and a sprinkling of written reprimands. The scar on his face was mute testimony to both his skills and his impulsiveness—ditching his backup, going into a dangerous hostage situation alone and unarmed, taking a riding crop to his right cheek. It took sixteen stitches to close the wound, and Agent Mulder had refused to even consider plastic surgery to cover the prominent scar running from his cheekbone to his jawline. Mulder's partner had commented that Mulder wore his scar like a hair shirt, and the Deputy Chief wondered idly how close to true that statement was.

The other three men were strangers. The first man was large, heavyset, blonde, bearded, dressed neatly in chinos and a cotton shirt. The next one was smaller, younger, slim, light brown hair, deep blue eyes, wearing jean shorts and a pink collared shirt. The smaller man kept looking to the larger one for cues, clues how to react in this strange and somewhat awkward situation.

The third man looked as untamed as the other two looked civilized. He hung back near the door, behind the other three, dressed monochromatically in black jeans, t-shirt, battered combat boots and holding a black leather jacket. His black hair was windblown, and his skin was flushed. There was a ring of vivid purple-blue bruises around his neck, partially hidden by the shirt collar. He had the most piercing green eyes the DC had ever seen, green like the ocean right before a storm. He recognized the high cheekbones and slightly turned-up nose from the years old pictures in the case files.

This young man must be Peter Romanek Cryder, now Alex Krycek.

The heavyset man walked up to the desk first, a pleasant smile on his face, and offered his hand. "You must be Deputy Chief Skinner. I'm Doctor Ronald James, and this is my partner, Thomas Moorman." His expression was genuine, but his eyes were careful, watching and evaluating. The DC shook the man's hand, and did the same for the smaller man next to him, receiving a brilliant smile for his effort.

The third man stayed near the door, not speaking, not smiling, green eyes cold, searching for threats, ready to bolt out the door at the slightest provocation. Skinner could see the young man practically vibrating with nervous energy, all his muscles tensed. He reminded Skinner of the Amerasian street kids he had seen on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City, hungry, wary, fearful and bold at the same time.

The Deputy Chief cleared his throat. "You must be Peter Cryder."

Cold green eyes met chocolate brown eyes, and Skinner could feel the young man's aggression and intensity from across the room. "Brilliant deduction, Holmes, except I go by Alex Krycek now."

The Deputy Chief turned his attentions to Agent Mulder, who was watching the young black-haired man carefully, observer face on. "Agent Mulder, I received your report. It left a few questions unanswered."

Merlin turned towards his boss, cocked an eyebrow, said nothing. Skinner continued.

You stated in your report that while you were at the bar in question, you saw Mr. Krycek in the presence of a male individual, wearing a dress, that you recognized as being an employee of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, though you never listed his name. Why was his name omitted, Agent Mulder?"

Sharp intake of breath from Dr. James. Alex stiffened, jaw clenched, bristling silently.

::Oh, fuck. Denise::

Agent Mulder returned the older man's gaze, his face a mask of sincerity and seriousness. "I'm afraid I didn't know his name, sir. I also did not state that he was necessarily an employee of the Bureau; merely that I had seen them previously in Hoover Building."

Deputy Chief Skinner looked at Alex. "Mr. Krycek, the night of the altercation with the suspect, who was at the bar with you?"

If looks could kill, Skinner would have been a dead man. Alex pulled himself up to full height, planted his feet shoulder width apart, clasped his hands behind his back in proper military posture, and responded in a slightly bored tone that would have made a Pentagon spokesman proud. "I'm sorry, Sir, but that information is released on a need-to-know basis only, and you have not demonstrated an adequate need to know."

Tomas fought down the urge to laugh, but the proud grin on his face spoke volumes.

::You go, Alex!::

Skinner's voice had dropped at least an octave, barely a snarl, felt as well as heard. "Mr. Krycek, if employees of the FBI are spending their off-hours at an S&M club, I have a very valid need to know."

Alex took three steps forward, threateningly, until he was leaning on the other side of the desk, palms on the polished wood, well inside the older man's personal space. "Why, sir? Blackmail material? So you can coerce them into giving you blow jobs in the executive bathroom?"

The temperature in the room had dropped to near zero Kelvin.

"Mr. Krycek, who was at that bar with you?"

"Eb tvoju mat, pizda."

From the change of expression, it was obvious that the Deputy Chief spoke at least a little Russian. He looked like he had been slapped. Skinner moved forward menacingly, until his face was only inches from Alex's.

'You. Will. Speak. To. Me. With. Respect." It was clear to everyone in the room that he was only holding his temper in check with a massive outlay of willpower.

"Or what, sir? Or you'll shoot me between the eyes? Or will you turn me over your desk and spank me?"

The air between the two men was a living thing, crackling and humming like a high-voltage line. For just a moment, a parade of pretty images flashed on the video screen inside Skinner's mind. Images of Alex, held down on the desk, his ass a lovely shade of red. Images of Alex, properly chastened, properly submissive... Desire spiked in his blood like a fever, coiling tighter and tighter until he could barely breathe.

::Kiss him or hit him::

The intercom on the desk phone buzzed, and both men jumped.

"Deputy Chief Skinner, Judge Peterman just arrived."

"Thank you, Kimberly. We'll be ready in just a moment."

As Skinner watched, Alex's face shut down, no emotion whatsoever. Blank mask. Just for a moment, Skinner glimpsed a shadow of little- boy-Alex, sad-hurting-child-Alex. Then it was gone and all he saw was his own reflection in the younger man's eyes.

::my whole life/been waiting/savior::

Skinner gestured with his head to a door on the opposite side of the office. "Conference room through there. You'll have more privacy."

Alex nodded his thanks, not trusting his voice through tightened throat muscles not to give away his emotional condition. He started walking towards the doorway, stopped when a hand touched his arm. Tomas, with Dio right next to him.

"Alex, we're coming with you. You're not going through this alone." Quiet voice, undertone of steel. Statement, not question.

Alex nodded again, smiled just a little bit.

::Not alone not alone god my father not alone...::

When Judge Peterman walked into the conference room a moment later, Alex knew he was staring at the older man. He couldn't help it.

Judge Peterman had the same black hair Alex had, the same bottle- green eyes, the same slightly pointy ears, the same elfin nose. Same muscular body, better padded, hair shot through with gray, making him look distinguished rather than old. He looked like a prototype for a federal judge. He looked like Alex.

::Is that what I'm going to look like in thirty years?::

Judge Peterman was obviously thinking the same thing. Smiling, he shook his head in disbelief. "They asked me if I wanted to have a DNA test done. Seeing you, I know it won't be necessary. You look just like your brothers."

::Oldest son. Firstborn::

Alex gasped. He had heard the news for the first time the day before, but it was still a body blow. "I... I have brothers?"

Same gentle smile. "You have two half brothers. Christopher is twenty, and Dennis is eighteen. You bear a striking resemblance to them. Would you like to see a picture?"

Alex took a deep breath, nodded. A moment later, Judge Peterman handed Alex a photo, edges worn from long exposure to the leather of his wallet. A younger Judge Peterman, with two teenage boys, on a beach. Family vacation. Both young men and the judge had the same eyes, the same nose, the same smile. One boy had blonde hair, the other was a brunette. Aside from that, they could have been Alex clones.

He didn't know how long he stood there, staring blankly at the photograph, shaky fingers playing with the tattered edges, until a hand rubbing his back pulled him out of his reverie. Alex recognized the cologne without turning around. Tomas.

"Breathe, Alex."

Alex pulled a long lungful of air through his nose, closed his eyes, held it for a second, and exhaled through his mouth. Yoga breathing. He did it again. In for a count of three, hold for a count of three, out for a count of three. After a few more breaths, his fingers stopped tingling, his limbs felt less leadened. He opened his eyes and looked at Judge Peterman, who was studying him with a curious, slightly concerned expression.

"Alex, you probably have a lot of question for me..."

"Just one, actually." He realized his tone was cold, didn't care. Judge Peterman just looked at him, eyebrows arched, waiting. "When did you find out?"

Surprised, Judge Peterman paused for a moment, calculating, counting. Eyes up to the right. Speaking truth. "First inkling that your mother had been keeping a big secret? Fifteen years ago. Conclusive proof? Fourteen years ago. You would have been about ten."

Alex felt continental drift behind his eyes, the tectonic plates that made up his bedrock shifting. Ground under his feet tearing like wet napkins, something bubbling up in the spaces between. Something dark and oily and too scary to look at, too scary to face. And he was drowning in it.

Tomas looked away from the father and son, focused on Dio. Tomas could feel Alex getting more and more tightly wound, more upset as the conversation had gone on. From the expression on Dio's face, he was concerned about Alex as well. His attention was diverted from his lover by a sudden motion coming from Alex's side of the table. By the time Tomas turned back around, Alex had a gun pointed at his father.

Air turned to molasses, then amber. No one moved. No one breathed. Time slowed, stilled, stopped as the two men stared at each other from across a conference table and down the barrel of a Beretta. Same eyes, same face, a million light years between them.

"You son-of-a-bitch." Snarling, hissing sibilants. Face a kabuki mask of rage. Wild and high on fear, adrenaline and pain.

"Alex, put the gun down. Please." Judge Peterman's voice was quiet, not wanting to garner the attention of the two armed federal agents in the next room, undertone of steel. Command voice. Voice used to being obeyed. But Alex was too far gone to notice.

"You could have gotten me out of that house. You could have stopped it from happening. You could have saved me. But you didn't. You left me there! You let him hurt me!" Voice cracking, breathing way too fast, practically hyperventilating. Fight-or-flight had its claws into his throat, and no intention of letting go.

::all those years/all those nights/waiting for you/savior/and you never came::

Confusion, pain and guilt fought for supremacy on Judge Peterman's handsome face. Heart pounding like a jackhammer, he shook his head. "Alex, you have to believe me. I didn't know, Alex. I didn't..."

Tomas tore his eyes away from the Greek tragedy playing out in muted tone stereo in front of him, and looked back at Dio. Dio caught his eyes, a silent conversation happening in the blink of an eye. Dio nodded, agreement, decision. Tomas knew what he needed to do.

Tomas stepped in front of Alex, in front of the gun, right in the line of fire.

Alex's eyes were wild, pupils so dilated they looked black in the harsh florescent light. He was trembling all over, including his gun hand. Tomas had only seen Alex this upset once before, one cold February afternoon in a tree house in their backyard. Alex was in full panic mode—nothing going in, nothing coming out.

"Pyotr, nyet. Pajalista. Don't do this. Please." Using the old name, the mother tongue, in the language Tomas had learned from Alex during their long years of friendship. The only thing that would get through to Alex now. Tomas could hear the scream building up inside Alex's head, a tuneless chant to an angry god.

Alex looked back and forth from his father to his oldest friend. "Tomas, he left me there! He could have saved me! He left me there with them... with him..." Gasping for air, gun hand tremors so bad that Tomas had an image flash of misfire, accidental discharge.

::Calm. Calm. Deep breaths. Calm::

Tomas took one careful step toward his friend, then two. "Peter, you don't want to do this. It won't make the pain go away. Please don't do this."

One more step forward, almost close enough to touch. Close enough to pull his oldest friend into his arms, hold him while he cried and bled out a decades-old betrayal that had yet to start to heal.

"Peter, give me the gun."

One more step, his hand sliding over the cold blue muzzle. His eyes locked onto Alex, who had gone completely white, gray around the edges. Alex was frozen in place, muscles rigid, black eyes distant, watching from afar. Tomas gently pushed the cold steel towards the floor, pointing away from anyone in the room. He brought his other hand up, slid his warm steady hands over Alex's icy trembling ones, carefully prying Alex's fingers off the trigger. Alex still didn't move, barely blinked, breathing shallow and rapid.

Once the gun was in Tomas' hand, he carefully uncocked it and placed it on the conference room table, the metal on glass contact loud in the tomb-silent room. Silence rich with pain and things left unsaid. "Peter, it's going to be all right. Everything is going to be OK."

The words seemed to pull Alex out of his trance. Frantic green eyes darted from Judge Peterman to Tomas to Dio. Fever burning him, freezing him hot and cold under his skin. He took one step backwards, then two. Before anyone could react, reach for him, speak, Alex dashed for the door and was gone, slamming it behind him.

Dio and Hal exhaled deeply, releasing a breath neither man was aware he was holding, an audible group sigh of relief. Judge Peterman started to move toward the door, follow his son, start to repair the damage. Dio caught the Judge's eye, shook his head quietly.

"I don't think that's such a good idea right now. What he needs at this moment is some breathing room, a little privacy. Give him a few minutes to compose himself, calm down, wash his face. Then I'll go get him, and we'll talk." Flowing seamlessly into ShrinkMode, an authority figure counseling the parent of a disturbed teen.

Worried green eyes searched Dio's face. "Is he all right? What was... what just happened?"

"He's all right, sir. He's been under an incredible amount of stress the last forty-eight hours. He only found out about your existence the day before yesterday, in one of the worst possible ways. That, on top of everything else, just pushed him over the edge. He'll be better once we get him away from here, get him someplace quiet and safe. We'll take good care of him, give him the help he needs."

The sound of the door opening startled both men. Merlin entered, followed by Deputy Chief Skinner. "Alex just lit out the door like the hounds of hell were..." Merlin realized that the strange object under Tomas's hand on the glass table was a gun. Alex's gun. Merlin's handsome face froze. "What the hell went on in here?" Agent Mulder voice.

Tomas, eyes a little too wide, too bright, picked up the gun, tucked it into the waistband of his shorts. "Nothing happened. Alex needed a moment to calm down. He's probably in the bathroom right now. He'll be back in a little bit."

Five minutes went by, air still and too thick, as Skinner carefully traced from one man, to another, to another. Watching. Waiting. Making judgments. Coming to conclusions. Powerful man with powerful thoughts.

Ten. Judge Peterman trapped miles too far back behind his own eyes, too deep inside his own head, breathing in that thick air dense with recriminations, polluted with guilt.

Fifteen. Tomas, center of the vortex. First taste of being protector instead of protected. Refusing to let Alex fall, brothers where it counts, not in the corpuscles but in the gray matter. Alex, the superhero with the magical power of complete obliviousness to how vulnerable he really is. Alex. Where is...

"Where's Alex?"

Deputy Chief Skinner looked from Tomas to Merlin, crucial synapse firing, something important falling into place. "This has gone on long enough. Go get him. Bring him back here—NOW."

He returned a moment later, out of breath, alone.

"No sign of him in the bathroom, sir." Eyes tight with worry.

Skinner, Dio and Tomas started talking at once.

"Someone must have grabbed him while we were..."

"Are you trying to tell me that Luis got past the guards and security cameras...."

"No."

As a unit, everyone turned and looked at Dio.

"What do you mean, no?" Bass sandpaper rumble from the Deputy Chief.

"I mean I don't think he was taken. I think he left on his own volition, under his own power. Check and see if his motorcycle is still downstairs where he parked it. If it's gone, you'll know he left by himself. I don't know too many kidnappers who would go to the trouble of hauling a motorcycle off with their victim. If you don't believe me, check the security videos."

Merlin didn't even look at his boss to get permission to leave, just took off out the door, running for the elevator.

Dio looked from his lover, to his best friend's father, to the Deputy Chief, face calm. Only his lover could see the telltale signs of just how scared and upset Dio really was.

"So, Deputy Chief Skinner, where in this building can we watch the security camera videos?

Merlin was walking back to the stairs in the Justice Building parking garage. The stitch in his side was shooting nails through his abdomen, testament to his frantic dash out of the elevator and across the length of the garage. All he found was an empty parking space next to his Taurus, the space that once held a beautiful black and silver Kawasaki Vulcan 1200. Alex's motorcycle. Gone, turned to ghost and shadows, disappeared into the filament between light and darkness.

The cramp in his side kept getting worse, and he bent over, whimpering under his breath, as the nails dug in deeper. His cell took this misopportune moment to ring.

Gasping for bubbles of air. "Mulder." Another gasp.

"Agent Mulder, you'd better get back up here. Dr. James just found a message left on his voice mail."

::oh g_d oh g_d oh no oh g_d::

"Kidnappers?" Too fast for a ransom demand. Luis wouldn't call... unless he was calling to gloat....

"No. Alex. Get back up here."

Sparkle of adrenaline through his veins pushing him out and towards the door, the stairs, back up to the ninth floor.


Panting, running through the hallways. Didn't want to know, didn't want to know, had to know. Finally making it back to the Deputy Chief's office, out of breath, clothes askew, sweating profusely. Letting the doorjamb hold him up while he gobbled air.

Skinner was the first to notice Merlin's return, and he didn't bring it to anyone else's attention for a moment. He just indulged in the eye candy standing across the room. Skin glowing under a fine sheen of sweat, shirt unbuttoned, hair disheveled. He looked tired. He looked debauched. He looked like a fallen angel.

Skinner cleared his throat. "Agent Mulder, how good of you to join us." No condescension, just a hint of a smile behind the voice. Merlin looked up, confused.

The DC continued. "About three minutes ago, someone left a message on Dr. James' voice mail." He turned towards his desk, where Tomas and Dio were huddled around the speaker phone. "Dr. James, would you mind playing the message again?"

Dio nodded and punched a few buttons on the phone.

"I'm sorry, Dio." Alex's voice, rich velvet against the backdrop of car horns and fast moving automobiles. "They wanted to put me in a little cage, surrounded by armed guards, and wait for the Colombians to finish me off or Luis to grab me again. I couldn't let that happen. I won't make myself a sitting duck like that.

I'm taking the only option I have right now—running. As long as I keep moving, keep looking over my shoulder, they won't be able to keep up. Word on the street is that the trial will last another two weeks, three max. I can stay on the move for that long. It's the only way to keep the wolf away from your door, Dio. I won't let anyone hurt Tomas again. I'd die first.

Dio, take good care of Tomas. I can't be there to protect him, so I'm counting on you." Low chuckle. "After all, you can't screw that up any worse than I did, right?"

"Tell my father..." Quick intake of breath. "Don't tell my father anything. If he thinks his son is a lunatic and a psychopath, he'll be less vulnerable to blackmail or extortion attempts. Let him hate me. He's better off that way."

::don't turn around/savior/I'm already gone::

"Merlin, if you're listening, and I know you are, I want you to know much I appreciate everything you did for me the last few days. I hope I didn't mess things up too badly between you and your boss. I'll make it up to you, I promise, when I get back. Don't give up on me, Merlin, and don't be surprised when I show up on your doorstep."

The only sound was Merlin throwing a roundhouse punch into the bookshelf-covered wall, hazel eyes on fire.

"When winter vanished,
I searched, only to find you
Missing and presumed"
From the Introduction to Down in the Zero,
by Andrew Vachss

###

Missing and Presumed II: Pilgrimage

Rachel_Sara_B_B@hotmail.com

Missing and Presumed By Ganymede
Fandom : X-Files
Pairing: Krycek/Mulder, Krycek/Skinner and eventually K/M/Sk, but not a Krycek or a Mulder you have ever seen before.
Rating: NC-17, with a graphic and brutal rape survival story in chapter five. If that type of thing upsets or bothers you, you might not want to read this piece of fiction.
Spoilers: Nothing. Everything.
Archive: Sure! Just let me know where it's going.
Midwifed by: Josan
Thanks to : Josan, without whom none of this would exist. Jim, for helping me fall in love with the characters, and see the potential in Alex, Fox and Walter. Te, Leigh-Anne Childe, Spike and Viridian for inspiration and the occasional prepositional phrase. Last but not least, the beautiful fey black-haired, green-eyed young man I saw at the 1500 Gun and Knife Show back in December, who took up residence inside my head and wanted me to write him a story.
Authors Notes : This is SERIOUS AU, people. If you are looking for canon, go play in someone else's sandbox. I started out with the question, "If there was no such thing as the Consortium, how would Alex Krycek, Fox Mulder and Walter Skinner's lives be different? Who would they be?" The story took a sharp left at Albuquerque, and here we are. MAJOR TIMELINE SHIFT! This story takes place in 2001, but all the main characters are ten years younger than canon. AK is 24, FM is 29 and WS is 39. Why? Because it works.
Disclaimer: I do not own AK, FM or WS. Chris Carter does, and lets them waste away. I just take them for walks and make sure they have food and clean water when he goes on vacation. All the other characters belong to me.
Additional lyrics in Chapter Eight are from "Outside" by Staind.
Feedback: Rachel_Sara_B_B@hotmail.com. All flames will be fed to the dogs and later regurgitated on the rug.

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